The kitchen light clicks on. It’s the only sound that matters. Bob pads across the linoleum in his socks, the floor cold even through the worn cotton. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. Petunia is there. She is always there. He fills the kettle, sets it on the burner, and waits. The flame catches with a soft whoosh. Behind him, a single thump—her tail against the doorframe. Not a demand. Not a plea. Just a check-in. He spoons instant coffee into a chipped mug. The kettle begins to whistle, a low rumble building to a shriek. He pours. Steam rises. He stirs. The spoon clinks against ceramic three times. Then he leans against the counter, mug warming his palms, and stares out the window at the gray light gathering over the orchard. Petunia watches. Her breakfast bowl sits full by the back door. Kibble untouched. She will not move until he does. He sips. The coffee is bitter. He doesn’t mind. The screen door rattles in a gust. A fly bumps against the glass. Two minutes pass. Maybe three. He sets the mug down. He pushes off the counter. He walks to the back door, reaches for the knob, and glances down. Petunia’s eyes meet his. Her tail thumps once. Only then does she lower her head to the bowl. He doesn’t know she waited. He never knows. But outside, in the damp grass just beyond the fence, something small and metallic glints under a low-hanging branch. It wasn’t there yesterday.